by Maggie Finn
Ciaran gave a thin smile.
‘I’m just anticipating your phone calls.’
‘What phone calls?’
‘One, from your mother. She’s not going to be pleased.’
Danny swallowed. That was certainly true; she wasn’t going to take kindly to her own son bringing grief to the door of her favorite clergyman. Danny could almost hear the yelling already. He looked at the editor warily. ‘And who else is going to be complaining?’
‘Me, Dan,’ said Ciaran. ‘I’m going to be complaining when Pat Keen rings you up to offer you a job in New York.’
‘What? No,’ protested Danny. But he couldn’t hide his smile.
‘Sure, why wouldn’t he? Another big scoop from Daniel T Brennan? ‘If Young Dan can find such big stories in a backwater like Kiln County,’ he’ll be thinking, ‘What’s he going to be digging up when we bring him over to the Big Apple?’ And if Pat doesn’t jump, I wouldn’t be surprised if the London broadsheets called up; they’ve been following the Ross Oil story too. Everyone’s going to be interested in this hot new scoop machine.’
Ciaran was smiling, but Danny could see he was serious.
‘You assume I’d go,’ he said.
Ciaran laughed and stood up, clapping a hand on Danny’s shoulder. ‘Sure Dan, and you’d prefer to stay here, covering the sheepdog trials and the bake sales. Sure.’
He led Danny out of the office.
‘Just don’t forget about us when you’re making your Pulitzer acceptance speech.’
Danny drove into the square and pulled the yellow mini to a halt. There she was: Tessa Drake, the beautiful artist, just walking out of the Post Office. He’d driven here straight from the office station, hoping to find her, but somehow had known she would be here. Yes, Tessa Drake was spoilt and moody and, frankly, out of his league. But on a day like today when everything was going his way, she was the only girl he could think of. He yanked on the hand brake and jumped out of the car.
‘Tessa. Hi,’ he called, running across to her. ‘Look, sorry I ran off earlier.’
Tessa shrugged.
‘I won’t take it personally,’ she said. ‘Hope it was some help.’
‘Oh it was, it was.’ Ask her, ask her, he told himself.
‘Listen, what are you doing later?’ he blurted, watching her face for a reaction, but he saw a little smile.
‘Feeding the cat,’ she said.
‘And after that? You need to eat too, right?’
Another shrug, but Danny was feeling too good to be discouraged.
‘Well how about I take you to the best restaurant in Ireland?’
She frowned.
‘Not the Watch House.’
‘No, not the Watch House,’ said Danny, not adding that he couldn’t actually afford to take her to the Watch House.
‘Danny, you don’t have to…’
‘Oh don’t get too excited. At this place, the setting is amazing, but the food is terrible.’
Tessa laughed, her eyes shining as she looked at him.
‘Well if that’s the sell,’ she said finally, ‘How can I refuse?’
‘Great – great!’ Danny had so expected a polite refusal, he hadn’t planned beyond this point.
‘Great, well I’ll meet you here at seven?’
‘Here?’ That little smile again. ‘Outside the Post Office?’
‘If I drive down to the harbor, I’ll never get back out again.’
A big smile this time. A smile so big that seemed to light up the whole square. ‘Sure,’ she said, ‘Here at seven.’
Danny grinned and backed away. He felt as if he could have flown back to the car.
‘Oh and Tessa?’ he called. ‘Wrap up warm.’
Chapter Thirteen
He was early. Already waiting by his cute little yellow car. Tessa walked across, trying not to show her surprise. Her image of journalists – a notion formed by watching TV movies, admittedly – was that they were constantly on the move, racing to the next story, leaving angry editors and weeping girls in their wake. And yet here he was, on time, wearing a tie and not a hint of flakiness. So don’t jump to conclusions, Tess, she reminded herself. Judge not lest ye be judged; people could surprise you. She caught sight of the church tower and thought of Bishop Ray. By reputation, the priest was hardline and unbending, but this afternoon he’d been kind and sensible and most of all, he hadn’t baby-ed her. Maybe Danny Brennan would surprise her too.
‘Wow,’ said Danny, walking around the car to open the door for Tessa. ‘You look… wow.’
Tessa blushed and squirmed under his gaze. She wasn’t good at accepting compliments; didn’t like them at all, in fact. She supposed it had something to do with having always been pretty. As a child old women would cluck around her. ‘Ooh, what a cutie-pie,’ they’d say, then as she got older: ‘so pretty, she’ll be a real beauty.’ Her parents had taken great pride in it, dressing her like a princess or a doll, parading her around at their parties. Tessa had loathed it. It was unearned, a fluke of nature. Who cared that a random clash of DNA had resulted in high cheekbones and long blonde hair? Wasn’t what was inside more important? Simon and Maura were feted for their talent and their wit – Tessa wanted that too.
‘Thanks,’ she said shyly to Danny, looking down at her plain denim dress. It wasn’t as if she’d come dressed as Cinderella. ‘You don’t look so bad yourself.’
It was true; he was handsome with his wavy dark hair and dancing green eyes. Tessa could see that Danny had made an effort too. A navy jacket, a striped tie and polished shoes; although he still managed to look slightly disheveled. Tessa liked that: she’d had enough of super-slick GQ men in London. Tessa hadn’t known what to expect from this date – in fact she’d been surprised to be asked, given her frostiness, but she liked his spontaneity and his directness. Danny was different; he was honest. She liked that.
‘Come on, we’d better get going,’ said Danny, opening the car’s door for her. ‘Don’t want to miss the show.’
‘The show? What show?’
He smiled mysteriously.
‘You’ll see.’
They drove out of the square, then inland towards Littlebridge, turning into the network of little lanes that spread spiderlike out towards the north, Danny driving with the sure touch of someone who knew every road and turn without thinking; a local’s internal GPS.
‘So you grew up here?’
‘Man and boy,’ he nodded. ‘Born in the shadow of the church and I have only managed to get about thirty yards away in twenty-odd years.’ He pulled an apologetic face. ‘Not very cosmopolitan, is it?’
‘I think it’s nice. I grew up drowning in cosmopolitan, it’s not what you think. Actually, growing up in Chelsea, I always used to fantasize about living in a cute little cottage in the countryside, surrounded by dogs and about a dozen brothers and sisters.’
‘Well I have a sister. I bet you didn’t imagine all the arguments we were having.’
‘No. And in my fantasy. the sun was always shining too, which is a source or disappointment. I mean, the sun does shine here, but…’
‘Not for long, eh?’
‘It’s like it’s teasing you. Sunshine and showers. All the time I’ve been in Clover Cove, I’m not sure we’ve had three days together when it hasn’t rained, even in the height of summer.’
‘My da used to say, ‘A green Christmas makes a fat churchyard’.
Tessa looked at him then burst out laughing.
‘It sounds wise, but I’m not sure what it means.’
‘I think the idea is that if we are spared the bad weather and have a mild winter, all the germs and diseases have a chance to grow and by summer, everyone will be dead. Classic Irish thinking: sunshine and warmth lead to certain death and rain and wind are actually a good thing.’
‘Well, that was the other thing – in my fantasy, that is – I’d have a Dad who’d give me solid practical advice like that.’
Danny’s smile faded. ‘I should poi
nt out that Da’s proverb is actually rubbish. And that my father wasn’t a man whose word you could rely on anyway. I learnt early that not all parents are cut out for the job.’
Tessa felt Danny shut down, it was almost like watching a flower close in on itself. She’d had problems with her own father of course, but she sensed Danny’s was something more terminal; she wasn’t going to push that, not on a first date anyway.
‘Well, the only advice my father ever gave me was “always tip the doorman,”’ she said. ‘“The doorman’s the one who’s going to put you in a cab at the end of the night.” Not exactly brilliant training for real life.’
‘Must have been exciting though,’ said Danny, ‘Having a houseful of artists and musicians.’
Tessa pouted and shook her head.
‘It got old very quickly. I can’t count the number of times I’d come in to find some beardy bohemian sleeping in my bed.’
Danny looked across at her, shocked.
‘What did you do?’
‘Oh, I didn’t mind too much, actually. I had a secret den set up in the linen cupboard. No one ever bothered me in there and it was warm, with all the pipes, like a little cave. I was rather relieved when they sent me off to boarding school. A lot of the girls wept every night, but I was just glad to have my own space.’
‘I can certainly appreciate that feeling. It’s fine growing up in a community where everyone knows you and knows your business, but sometimes you just want to be in your own little world, don’t you?’
Tessa nodded politely, but actually, she was thinking the opposite. The idea of people knowing you – truly knowing you, warts and all – and still caring about you sounded pretty magical to her.
‘You know, that description of your linen cupboard with the pipes has reminded me of a book I used to love when I was a kid,’ said Danny. The Weirdstone of Brisingamen by Alan Garner. It was set in this mystical English village and was about the adventures of some kids with goblins and elves and magical swords and they had to tunnel out through these pipes…’
‘No way,’ laughed Tessa. ‘Me too! I loved that book!’
Danny glanced across, eyes wide.
‘You’re kidding me? I thought I was the only one.’
‘No, I had that very book hidden in the cupboard and I’d read it over and over by torchlight, wishing some wizard would come along and take me on an adventure.’
Danny grinned at her. ‘Amazing. Actually, I’ve always thought someone should write an adult version.’
Tessa looked at him.
‘Well, why don’t you?’
‘Me? I’m just some jumped-up hack.’
‘Is that how you see yourself?’
Danny blew out his cheeks, considering. Clearly, he was used to being the one who asked the questions.
‘No, I suppose not,’ he said finally. ‘My fantasy was always about running off to Africa like Hemingway and writing a great novel. Dust and lions and travel, seeing the world that way, really seeing it, really living.’
‘I thought being a journalist was like that already – all glamorous jet-setting and parties full of celebrities.’
Danny coughed out a laugh.
‘I’ve been on the paper for two years and I’ve never got further than Galway.’
‘Who’s the cosmopolitan one now?’ she teased.
‘You’re right of course. I should stop making excuses and just get on with writing, but with my job being 24/7, it’s hard to find the time.
‘But if you’re not doing the thing that makes you happiest, then you’re not really living,’ said Tessa, thinking it was a lesson she should take note of herself.
They had been chatting so easily, Tessa had barely noticed where they were going, so when Danny pulled into a tiny turn-off and parked, she was surprised. They were on a quiet lane with high flowery embankments on either side.
‘Why have we stopped?’ she frowned. ‘I thought we were going to some Michelin-starred restaurant.’
‘Better than that,’ smiled Danny. He got out and opened her door, offering Tessa a hand as she climbed out. ‘Just a little walk,’ he said. Tessa didn’t mind when he kept hold of her hand.
‘But watch your step, it’s a bit overgrown here and there.’
He led her through a gap in a fence into a wide meadow and along a narrow path sloping down towards the sea. The late evening sun warmed Tessa’s face and she listened to the tweet and rustle of the birds into the hedgerow.
‘Danny, where are we going?’
‘Just past the tree. Next field.’
Tessa stepped past an old oak and into a small clearing surrounded by tall grass and wildflowers. Ahead of her, the meadow fell away down to the bluest sea and at their feet, a blanket with a wicker picnic basket and an ice-filled champagne bucket. Now it was Tessa’s turn to say ‘Wow!’
‘When did you come here and set all this up?’ she asked.
Danny grinned.
‘About an hour ago. I was keeping my fingers crossed that it wouldn’t all be blown into the sea, or that the seagulls would have eaten everything.’
‘Danny, it’s perfect.’
They sat down on the rug and Danny produced linen napkins and china plates – mismatched, but that seemed fitting. With silver tongs, he served her salad and delicious thick-sliced ham as they watched the sun sink, the sky obediently bruising purple and orange, the gulls wheeling overhead. Charmed and flattered by Danny’s efforts, Tessa relaxed into the moment and they talked of everything and nothing until the sun was long gone and Danny draped his jacket around her shoulders to stave off the chill.
Finally the spell was broken by the chirp of a mobile phone. Danny grabbed it, but then pulled an apologetic face. ‘Sorry, I have to take this,’ he said, jumping up. ‘Work thing.’
‘Don’t apologize, Hemingway,’ Tessa smiled, watching him walk away. From her unconventional childhood, or perhaps from her father’s genes, Tessa had always been a people watcher, observing and assessing. From Danny’s body language, she could tell he was talking to his boss, or someone he respected, but at the same time, she could also see he was excited by whatever was being discussed. A hot new story, perhaps? Tessa felt a stab of disappointment, realizing that might mean he had to rush off, chase down the lead, write it up before his deadline; which would of course mean the night was over. If she was honest, she hadn’t expected much from Danny Brennan, but she had enjoyed their time together and now she didn’t want it to end. She shivered and pulled Danny’s jacket tighter; there was a wind getting up and she’d felt a few spots of rain. Perhaps this perfect picnic would have to end anyway.
Finally Danny pocketed his phone and walked back, already apologizing.
‘No, no, it’s fine,’ laughed Tessa, ‘It’s only what I expected.’
‘What did you expect?’ asked Danny.
‘Oh, isn’t this what happens to reporters in the movies, getting a phone call during dinner? “Get down to City Hall, the mayor has a beef’?”
‘It’s even more of a cliché than that.’ He held up his phone. ‘That was the editor of the New York Post.’
Tessa’s eyes opened wide.
‘The New York Post?’
Danny nodded.
‘He wants to syndicate a story I’m writing for the Examiner.’
‘Danny, that’s brilliant news!’
She looked at his face and frowned.
‘…isn’t it?’
Sighing, Danny sat down next to her.
‘I have a story, it’s an exclusive and it could make my name as a journalist.’
‘Then why so troubled?’
‘I guess…’ he shook his head, clearly struggling with something. ‘I guess I’m not sure I’m doing the right thing.’
‘A hack with a conscience?’ said Tessa. ‘Are you sure you’re in the right job?’
Danny looked stricken and Tessa softened, touching his hand.
‘Sorry. Tell me about it.’
And wit
h a sigh, Danny did. He told her about the whole Ross Oil story, about how he’d had the phone call from Pat Keen, editor of the New York paper, about how he’d got wind of the story about Bishop Ray. He pulled out his phone and showed Tessa the picture he’d taken of the priest and his hip-flask.
Tessa looked down at it. ‘Bishop Ray’s a good man,’ she said quietly.
‘No, Tessa, he’s not,’ said Danny. ‘Ray’s a hypocrite. Ask Connor about all the times Ray marched up and down outside the pub, shouting about the evils of drink. He practically put Con’s father out of business. And yet here he is doing the very thing he tells us is a terrible sin.’
‘People make mistakes, Danny,’ said Tessa, handing the phone back. ‘Nobody’s perfect.’
‘No, they’re not. But this is a big deal. A man who has built a career on piously looking down on the supposed weakness of others, he’s lied to everyone.’
Tessa nodded. ‘He has. But… let he who is without sin cast the first stone.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘What it says. There can’t be anyone alive who hasn’t told a lie.’
Danny looked up at the sky. It definitely felt like rain now.
‘There’s a difference between fibbing about taking the last biscuit and something that affects hundreds, thousands of people,’ he said.
‘Perhaps. I’m more interested in how it will affect one man.’
‘The Bishop?’
‘Well yes, he’ll be destroyed. But I’m more concerned about you, Danny.’
‘Me?’
Tessa took his hand.
‘I can see you know this is wrong.’
‘Wrong?’
He stood up, pulling his hand away.
‘I’m not the one using my morals to attack others.’
Tessa sighed, hunching her shoulders as the wind began to blow droplets in their direction.
‘Perhaps not. But it’s bigger than that, isn’t it? If it was just the Bishop’s morals at issue here, that would be one thing, but this is about Ross Oil.’
He looked genuinely surprised.
‘Ross Oil? No.’
‘Come on Danny; why would anyone in America care about a priest from a small town in Ireland? The New York Globe is interested in Bishop Ray because exposing his drinking will discredit him, and discrediting the Bishop means Ross Oil are free to take over Clover Cove again. That’s the big story here.’
